


alis grave nil

by alcor



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Crossdressing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcor/pseuds/alcor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nothing is heavy to those who have wings."  Birthday fic for fugues. [ mizalit, so-gently-implied-you'd-never-find-it yumalit ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	alis grave nil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fugues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugues/gifts).



> this is just ridiculously self-indulgent. happy (late) birthday telli, don't listen to asa, you can turn your age now.

He hates his human form.  Mizael often cannot bear to think of it as _his_ human form; it's _a_ human form he has to wear when he enters the human world, a gross, dull thing of earth and water and slop.  But it's simultaneously less and more than that.  He hates this body.  It isn't even shaped so much differently from his true form, but there is something about it that fills him with anxiety and revulsion when he examines it for too long, feels along his arms and touches the planes of his chest and stomach, examines his genitalia with confused distaste.

Mizael tried to talk to Alit about it once, but Alit was useless: he loves the human world and is bad at hiding it; he loves the sweat and the dirt and training there with Gilag to take on the Messenger.  Mizael had turned away, unable to hide his disgust.  Alit had said, you know, you won't get anywhere with that kind of attitude, humans are more interesting than you think, you know?  But Mizael refused to allow himself to _know_.

* * *

It wasn't long after that, and Alit was gone, sealed up in Baria Crystal on the steps of the throne room, and it made Mizael too sad to look at him, and at Gilag, and so despite his revulsion, he began to spend more time in the human world, little by little.  He could stomach his body if he avoided looking at himself in mirrors, or if he avoided thinking too much about the feeling of his heavy limbs as he moved or walked. 

Today, for one of the first times in a long time, Mizael is in a city, walking about among the humans.  The proximity to so many of them is stifling, claustrophobic, but he is forcing himself to endure it.  Alit and Gilag, to some extent, were right: they must be able to blend in with humans if they have a prayer of defeating Tsukumo Yuuma and the Astral Messenger.  No possible disadvantage can be allowed to stand.

He is standing on a corner, waiting for the signals to flash so that the vehicles on his side of the street will stop moving, and his eyes happen to stray over to the window of a nearby shop.

There is clothing on display that matches the color of his hair and it is edged with thin lacy strings the color of his Baria Lapis, and although it is the style of clothing preferred by human females, Mizael cannot stop staring at it for some reason.  Beautiful things are, after all, worthy of attention, and although Mizael hates human bodies he certainly can’t fault human color sense (surprisingly developed for creatures that can only see a tiny fraction of the spectrum of light).

He goes to the apartment he is “renting,” but he spends the night thinking about that silly clothing, for some reason.

* * *

And a week later, he invents a reason to acquire it—called a “dress”—and puts it on and examines himself in the mirror.  And for some reason, Mizael... _likes_ it.  He likes the way his legs feel so much freer, more like they do back home, less restricted.  He like the little peeks of skin or of other cloth between the gaps in the lace.  He likes the new shape of his silhouette.

This is so worrisome that Mizael stashes the thing in his closet for three days, before the desire to see himself in it again overwhelms his pride, and he puts it on before the mirror and moves around in it a little more than he had before.  The swishing feeling of the cloth against his legs... The way it leaves his arms bare so that he can see, in a new light, the bunching of his lean muscles, the lines of his collarbones and his delicate neck—so vulnerable a spot in human physiology, unlike home... The obvious care and attention to aesthetic detail, the elevation of form over function...

Mizael finds that when he is wearing the dress, he hates his human form far, far less.

* * *

Alit isn’t the same anymore.  Mizael used to think he found Alit slightly obnoxious, on a bad day, a slacker when it came to Important Things and a hothead when it came to everything else.  But this new Alit—so much hungrier, crueler, burning terribly with purpose as with a fever—makes Mizael miss his old self.  He would never say it; a comrade is a comrade is a comrade, and it’s good that Alit is committed to something other than working out for once, especially when that something is the destruction of a dangerous enemy, but.

But at the same time, Mizael is nervous.  Things always escalate to bad places when Vector is scheming, and Alit and Gilag’s initial injuries and their subsequent too-quick somehow-wrong revivals have “Vector” written all over them.

He is thinking about this while Alit sleeps in his room.  Alit had turned up, in a strange state, talking about ruins and strange memories and visions and the Legendary Numbers and all sorts of things all jumbled together at once—he looked as though he’d seen a ghost, hands shaking, eyes wide, and Mizael had had to talk him down a bit and get him into bed for a while.  Perhaps the two of them should have gone straight to Barian, what with Alit just dueling Tsukumo and the Messenger and all, but Alit was an incoherent mess at the time, and to be honest, Mizael would feel better getting him calmed down before they return and confer with Durbe about what is to be done.

At some point Mizael dozes off himself and has time to wake up and eat something before Alit finally emerges from the bedroom.  But when he does, Mizael wishes he’d put him somewhere else.

“Is this yours?” Alit is holding the dress in his hand, laughing in disbelief.  “Mizael, is this—did you get this for someone?” 

Without thinking, he blurts, “No!”  Mizael snatches it away and snaps, his face burning: “Don’t touch things that aren’t your concern.”

“Wait—it’s, like, for **you**?”  Alit has to put a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.  “I thought maybe you had picked up some human girlfriend—I didn’t mean—oh my _god_ —”  He bends his knees and crouches down to the floor to laugh, his whole body shaking silently.

Mizael’s mouth is working until he finally manages to grind out, “Don’t mock me.”

Alit has finally sat down on the floor directly, still giggling a little; he chokes, “I—I never would h-have thought... Mizael was into that k-kind of thing...”  He finally looks up.  “Do you actually put it on?”

“Well—well, what else would I do with it?” Mizael sputters.  His hands were clenching into the fabric, but he forces himself to shake it out, smooth the fabric in case he might wrinkle or damage it.  “I know... it’s terribly foolish,” he forces himself to say.  “I know I shouldn’t...”

“No shit, it’s foolish,” Alit says, and Mizael cringes at his tone—for a moment it is terribly harsh, and unlike Alit at all.  But a moment later, he says, “I think, though... we’re all foolish, once in a while.”  Mizael looks back at him and sees that Alit looks very distant.  “Hey, hey,” he says, standing up and putting on a fainter version of his cocky grin, “You should put it on.”

“...Me?”

“Yeah.  You.  The dress.  I wanna see you in it.”  Alit gestures at him.  “You went and got the thing, why not show it off?”

For a moment, Mizael is not sure what to do.  He should be planning to go back to Barian with Alit, to find out more about the Legendary Numbers.  He should tell Alit that the time for foolishness has ended, and they have work to do.  But...

(but wouldn’t it be kind of nice, to let someone else see Mizael be beautiful?  just one other person?  just so he knows it’s not just him?)

He nods, and carries the dress into the bedroom with him.  “Give me a few minutes,” he says.  “I’ll call you in when I am ready.”

When the door shuts, Mizael hastily strips down, puts the dress on, arranges himself, looks in the mirror.  He also has some human makeup that he sometimes puts on—he had originally gotten a large set of various things in the hopes of disguising his facial markings or changing his overall appearance, but then he had noticed how much more beautiful he could make his facial features look if he applied them correctly.  He could make his eyelashes seem longer, his cheekbones more delicate, emphasize the blue in his eyes... 

“A-Alit,” he calls, when he is done, and curses his foolish self for stammering as though he were nervous (he is terribly nervous).

Alit comes in and Mizael turns, and—“Oh,” Alit says, and for once he is not grinning or laughing.  He looks shocked and... well, full of _wonder_ , in a way.  This lifts Mizael’s spirits.  “Oh, wow.”  Alit walks around Mizael a bit, sits down on the bed, covers his mouth.  “You—you actually kinda...”

Fortified, Mizael tosses his hair back and twists a little, so that Alit can see more of the way the dress fits on him.  “I think it fits me well,” he says archly.  He is proud of his taste.

Alit swallows, stands, pauses, sits again.  He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.  He looks less haggard, less hard and edged—he looks a little more like his old self than he has recently.  “Mizael, you, uh... You look....pretty.”

Well, Mizael supposes that he does!  The praise is just proof that he knew what he was doing when he got this dress in the first place.  And it’s nice to hear Alit sounding more like his old self, too.  “I, uh,” he admits.  “I have to say, humans’ things are not all so useless, sometimes.”  Alit is looking down at his hands, staring into them as if confused.  He looks as though he is fighting some internal battle.

Then, he looks up.  “Mizael, did you ever...” he begins, standing up again.  “I mean, when I was first here, I was here for a longer time, and Gilag and I were training, and so I had to find out a lot about this form, and.”  He shakes his head, suddenly steeling himself, and puts his hands on Mizael’s bare shoulders.  “Mizael,” he says, looking him up in the eyes, “have you ever done anything with your body that feels nice?”

Mizael blinks.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says.  Does he mean like, eating?  That isn’t all so bad, when you can get good food that isn’t slop.   That is, it only _feels_ nice insomuch as it makes hunger go away.  It is sometimes nice to feel interesting textures, like soft fur, or smooth stone. Other than that...?

“I mean, sometimes, if you touch parts of your body, or if someone else does, it feels... nice,” Alit explains.  He suddenly breaks eye contact, takes his hands away and walks a few steps away—“I mean, it’s just useless!  A bunch of stupid human junk.” He sounds angry again, that cruel tone of voice.  But he’s confused—he keeps wavering in and out of it.  Mizael watches him, warily.  “I suppose it’s all about bonds, or something, organic life forms.  Family units.  It... sometimes if you’re alone, you have to think about... someone else...”  Alit bites his lip.  Does he look sad?  In a way?

Mizael runs his fingers through a few strands of hair, smoothes down his dress again.  “I haven’t experienced that myself, no.”  That’s so inspecific.  Mizael has certainly touched nearly all of his body at one time or another—it’s essential to bathing and grooming.  He has no idea what Alit is talking about, and yet from the way he talks about it, it seems like it must be something important.  “How does it go?  What do you mean, nice?”

Alit blinks at him, eyes widened.  “I—you.  You’d want me to tell you?”

Mizael crosses his arms, rolls his eyes.  “ _You_ brought it up,” he sighs.

“No, yeah, right, it’s just...” Alit walks closer again.  “It’ll just be easier if I...show you.”  His eyes flick down and up, over Mizael’s body, and again that wonder is back.  He brings his hands up, cautiously.  “Can I... I, uh.  Don’t fight me for a second, you’ll see.”  He reaches out and puts his hands up to either side of Mizael’s face.  “I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Is this—?” Mizael begins, but he cuts himself off when he sees what Alit means—they are going to press their _mouths_ together.  (How is this supposed to be something he could do on his own?)  And then it happens, and... And it’s not as bad as Mizael had feared?  His mouth is wet, certainly, but it’s not any more already-repulsive than Mizael’s own.  And it’s warm, and after the first few moments, when Mizael can stop overthinking the fact that their mouths are in contact, Alit begins to move his lips and tongue slightly against Mizael’s own, and... and it _does_ feel nice, in an inexplicable way, to be this close, to feel his breath, his heat...

When they break apart, Mizael realizes his heart has started to beat a little faster.  “...Well, how am I supposed to do that on my own?” he asks, almost annoyed (that they have stopped).

“That’s the next part,” Alit says, and to Mizael’s surprise, he takes his shirt off.  (His muscles are cut very nicely beneath his skin, rippling, corded.  He seems stronger than he used to be.)  His skin is duskier than Mizael’s paler skin, and he takes Mizael’s hand and puts it over his chest.  He’s warm, a little flushed, and Mizael can feel that his heart rate is up, too.  “Like this,” he says, and with his hand over Mizael’s, he guides him to stroke his nipple a few times.  His breathing hitches a little.  Mizael rubs at it with his thumb, gentle at first, and then a little harder a few times, until—“That’s enough,” Alit says, a little strained.  “You try.”

Mizael looks down.  “I don’t want to get undressed,” he says.  Not after all that effort to begin with.

“That’s okay,” Alit says.  “You can touch them through the fabric.  Sometimes that’s even better,” he adds.  Mizael tries and—and oh!  It’s ticklish at first.  But it’s also... yes, it... it does feel nice.  It’s strange; he wouldn’t know of any other word to describe this feeling, but it’s a little stronger and different from just “nice.”  He finds himself wanting to breathe harder, to even make a little sound, and something feels _very_ strange down below his navel, and Mizael finds himself looking over to see Alit, face completely red, pressing his hand to his mouth.  “You...” he manages, “you look like you like it.”

“It is new,” Mizael admits, a little out of breath.  “Is that it?”  It wasn’t so bad, no.  Nothing to write home about, but more than he had expected.

Alit shakes his head.  “We could keep going,” he says.  When Mizael nods to this, he gestures to the bed.  “It might be nicer to lie down,” he suggests.

Mizael lies down on his back, arranging the dress around him, and Alit pushes his hands into the mattress on either side and kisses Mizael again, leaving him feeling hot and more nice and under his dress... “Something’s happening,” he says (gasps, really), “to me, to... between my...”  What’s the terminology for that thing?

“That’s part of it.  It’s fine.  It’s supposed to do that,” Alit reassures him, sliding a hand up Mizael’s thigh— _oh_ , that feels really nice—up under his dress to the member that seems to be doing things on its own—and he touches it and that really seems to be what was needed down there—

“Wait,” Mizael manages to choke out, and Alit stops, startled.  “Wait, don’t do it for me.  I want to do it.”  His pride won’t allow him to sit here passively while Alit does everything for him. 

Alit sits back.  “You want to... touch yourself, alone?” he asks.  (Almost like his feelings are hurt.)

“No,” Mizael says.  He sits up a little more so that he doesn’t need to crane his neck to see Alit.  “Show me.  And I’ll copy your technique.”

Alit stares at him for a few seconds.  “You... want me to touch myself.  While you watch.  And you’ll do what I do,” he says.

“Yes,” Mizael snaps, though not with much force, “I thought I’d made myself pretty clear.”

Alit stares at him for a little longer, before the shadow of his old grin plays across his face.  “Interesting...” he mutters to himself, while he wrestles to get his pants off without getting off the bed.  Once they’re off, Mizael notices Alit’s own thing has already risen a little bit.  “Just watch me,” he says softly, and begins to stroke himself.  Mizael goes to do the same, but pauses, watching.  Alit is very careful with it, rolling his hand over it, stretching the skin a little, stroking, petting, stroking harder...  It’s so fascinating to watch that Mizael forgets to touch himself at the same time.  He watches Alit’s eyes instead, watches them go softer and softer, until he seems so lost in himself that Mizael might have thought he’d never been hurt and come back so strange and sharp-edged.  “Mmm...” he moans, “Mii-zae... you should.... moooooovee...”

“Wh-?” Mizael asks but suddenly something hits him in the eye, and he recoils, slapping at his face.  Alit laughs, not unkindly. 

“Sorry, I tried to warn you!” he says, wiping at Mizael’s face with his hands.  Something had shot out of...?  Alit seems so relaxed now, so...

“Does it do that every time?” Mizael sputters, clawing at the gunk that had shot him in the eye. 

“It’s supposed to, yeah,” Alit says.  He looks down and notes Mizael’s half-flagging member.  “You didn’t finish yourself, did you?”

“I... was studying,” Mizael says.  He reaches down again and tries to stroke himself again.  He’d not paid attention to his own body for so long, watching Alit, that it seems to have calmed down a little.  He casts around for a thought and finds himself returning to Alit’s expression earlier, so vulnerable, so... almost gentle.  It excites Mizael in an unnameable way.  Alit watches his hands, an unreadable emotion on his face.

“Are you sure—are you sure you don’t want help?” he asks.  His eyes follow Mizael’s hands like a lost dog.

Mizael looks at him, at the new shadows under his eyes that have been there since he returned from the crystals, at his lips moving slightly.  “You can help,” he says finally, adding, “if you’d like.”  Alit moves forward almost immediately, brushes his mouth against Mizael’s again, tucks his legs up next to him, moves the both of them closer.  His hand slides up Mizael’s thigh again, warm and strong, moving the hem of the dress up between them.

(Mizael knows now what Alit had meant when he’d babbled about this before: the comfort of closeness, of touch, is a uniquely human thing.  It is the opposite of loneliness, for humans, who cannot shine and warm one another with light.  Mizael realizes, then: Alit, trapped in the crystal for weeks; Alit, running off away from Gilag and from Mizael and Durbe in their world, unlike his usual wont; Alit, who of all of them had respected Tsukumo Yuuma the most in the Before—Alit is lonely.)

Alit moves and moves against him and Mizael cannot help sighing and making some sounds, and these seem to make Alit happy, taking them as a sign that he is doing well.  Mizael kisses against Alit’s cheeks, light little pecks one after the other (because he doesn’t want to lose the last of the color on his lips), trailing down to his throat, and that makes Alit gasp and tremble a little, in something between fear and ecstasy.  Until finally the heat below reaches a peak and Mizael feels something clench and release, and Alit’s hand is dripping with the stuff that came out, and the both of them lie against one another for a while.

“I’m going to need another dress,” Mizael finally sighs. 

Alit looks distant again, removed.  He stands up, eventually, re-dresses himself.  Mizael doesn’t bother to move; he is still trying to figure out whether he can have this dress cleaned and pressed or if it isn’t worth salvaging, anyway.  “I’m going to return to Durbe and report,” he says, after he has fully dressed, out of the blue.  “Don’t bother coming, I’ll handle it myself.”

Before Mizael can even object, a flash of blue and stars envelops Alit and pulls his light back to Barian.  Mizael is left there, contemplating events.  Thinking about loneliness, and about Alit.  He examines his hands, his arms, his bare shoulders, his legs still splayed on the bed.

For once, he doesn’t really hate any of it.


End file.
